


blue

by oisugasuga



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Growing Old Together, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-15 00:17:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11794479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oisugasuga/pseuds/oisugasuga
Summary: Even standing in the doorway of a darkened dorm room with his phone cracked and broken from where he had dropped it at his feet, with a furious roommate standing in front of him brandishing a bright blue teakettle, with all of the day’s weight sitting on his shoulders, Oikawa had thought Suga was beautiful.





	blue

**Author's Note:**

> have to leave a huge shoutout to the lovely, lovely sky ([fairylights101](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FairyLights101/pseuds/FairyLights101)) for reading through the mess this was before they offered their beautiful editing advice and made it so much better<33 (go read their work please, it's amazing and gorgeous and lksdfj just go read!)
> 
> ALSO please listen to this song while reading, it was a big inspiration for this piece: [we move lightly - dustin o'halloran](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_BYe-UfzgPk)

The first time Oikawa Tooru met Sugawara Koushi, the other had almost left him with a concussion and a broken nose.

 

In hindsight, trying to break into his new dorm room in the early morning - all because he had missed his train that ran from his small, sleepy hometown to the bustling streets of Tokyo earlier that afternoon - had probably not been the smartest idea.

 

But Oikawa had been desperate.

 

He had somehow managed to lose his brand-new, shiny room key on the trip, he had been hungry and tired and in no mood to trek across campus looking for someone to help him get in, and what harm would it cause if he just picked the lock instead?

 

Five minutes later had seen Oikawa narrowly avoiding a teakettle to the head and then dealing with a very angry, very new roommate. 

 

_"Who the fuck moves in at four in the morning?"_ had been the first words out of Suga’s mouth the moment the chaos had calmed down and Oikawa had explained who he was, hands still raised in defense, his suitcase and everything else he had been carrying on the floor.

 

Even then, one of Oikawa’s first thoughts had been of how gorgeous Suga was.

 

Even standing in the doorway of a darkened dorm room with his phone cracked and broken from where he had dropped it at his feet, with a furious roommate standing in front of him brandishing a bright blue teakettle, with all of the day’s weight sitting on his shoulders, Oikawa had thought Suga was beautiful.

 

His silver hair had been a sleepy mess, a smudge of silver in the dark, framing a pale face and a carefully-placed beauty mark and large, copper-gilt eyes that flashed and burned, a soft mouth and wings for collarbones, elegant hands with long, graceful fingers that wrapped around the handle of the teakettle, and a mess of inky eyelashes that threw lines of ebony over his cheekbones when he sighed and closed his eyes in a mix of exasperation and exhaustion.

 

And when the irritation on Suga’s face had given way to perfect amusement, his lips curling with a smile at the ridiculousness of the whole situation, Oikawa had felt something loosen in his chest.

 

Sugawara Koushi had been the best thing Oikawa had seen in a long time. 

 

 

 

Sugawara Koushi had been a game-changer, a rip in the perfectly constructed layout of Oikawa’s life, a breath of fresh air amidst the carefully-planned dinner parties and the stuffy halls of his parent’s mansion and the plastic, fake, lipstick-covered, cologne-smothered, perfect smiles, perfect answers-life Oikawa had been living for the past eighteen years.

 

Two years later had led to Oikawa sitting with Suga on the couch in the living room of their new apartment, both of them tired from unpacking and reorganizing, from getting everything ready for the new semester that would start the next week.

 

The silence had been perfect, comfortable, Suga’s head resting on Oikawa’s shoulder.

 

Neither of them had bothered to turn on the lights as the sun had steadily gotten lower in the sky, bathing the walls in muted blues and brushstrokes of rose pink, soft and almost nostalgic, a photograph trapped in the waves of time, coupled with the sticky-sweet memories of countless past moments from the last two years that had been just like this one.

 

When Suga had turned his head, soft hair tickling the side of Oikawa’s neck, had scooted in closer and let out this tiny little sigh against Oikawa’s skin, tracing nonsensical patterns into the back of Oikawa’s hand where their hands were laced together between them, it had been so natural. 

 

So easy to say Suga’s name, say _"Koushi,"_ and have him glance up through feathered eyelashes, eyes just as bright and just as beautiful as ever.

 

So easy to let the feelings that had been building up piece by piece over the past couple of years, the emotions Oikawa felt every time Suga walked into the room, swell in his chest and grow like flowers through his rib cage, pushing up, up until Oikawa _knew_.

 

So easy to place his hand under Suga’s jaw and tilt his head up, off of Oikawa’s shoulder, until their mouths had met and Suga had made this tiny little noise of surprise against his lips before he’d responded, pushed into Oikawa’s space almost in the same way that he had pushed into Oikawa’s life, passionate and endearing and perfect.

 

Two years and Oikawa had wished that he had done this on day one.

 

 

 

Five years after Oikawa had picked a lock at four in the morning, five years after Suga had threatened him with a teakettle, and Oikawa had stumbled through yet another door, but this time with his _husband_ finally in his arms, the two of them laughing breathlessly against each other’s mouths and fumbling at suit jackets and ties, cool fingers against hot skin.

 

Suga was perfect, was so, so perfect, the only thing Oikawa had been able to say over the haze in his head, over the unbelievable joy he felt whenever he caught a glimpse of the glint of gold on Suga’s ring finger as his pale hands tugged at Oikawa’s shirt impatiently.

 

Their hotel room had been nice, the best Oikawa’s family could afford then, even though he had long since told them where they could stick their money.

 

They hadn’t listened, but the need to tread lightly around them, as if he were walking on eggshells, had long since faded away, and Oikawa no longer had to pretend that he lived to take over the family business or to attend fancy evening soirees or to always have the perfect answer.

 

He had started to live for himself. To live for Suga.

 

And there Suga had been, right beneath him when they finally made it to the king-sized bed with its pristine white bedcovers and overabundance of pillows, and he’d tipped back onto it, Oikawa following closely, hovering on his elbows.

 

And oh how Suga had flushed, a gorgeous shade of cerise that Oikawa could see even though all of the lights had been off, curtains drawn tight, his mouth kiss-swollen, lips parted, his hair a starlit mess against the ivory bedsheets and a faint violet bloom of a bruise against the curve of one clavicle from Oikawa when he had pressed Suga to the wall a few minutes earlier.

 

Everything about him had always been so familiar, so comforting, Suga’s smile and his eyes, glinting in the dark, and the clean soap smell of his skin, and Oikawa felt so much he hadn’t known if his heart could handle it all, felt like it would burst in his chest.

 

Oikawa had run his palms down the flat slope of Suga’s bare stomach, warm, smooth skin revealed under his unbuttoned dress shirt, had thumbed at the beauty marks that lied scattered over the wing of his right hipbone, his husband’s breath catching in his lungs, his chest hitching, and Oikawa had leaned down, had left slow, lingering, open-mouthed kisses in the same path his hands had taken until he’d reached Suga’s navel.

 

He had stopped there, had closed his eyes and just rested his forehead against Suga’s stomach and had listened to his husband, _his husband_ , breathe, the trembling inhales and exhales, had smiled when gentle fingers ran through his hair and Suga’s voice lilted through the quiet room.

 

_"I love you,"_ Suga had said.

 

 

 

_"I love you too,"_ Oikawa had murmured into the crown of Suga’s head, the two of them standing in a living room full of boxes, still unpacked, morning sunlight streaming through the windows with no curtains and setting Suga’s hair on fire, silver sparking and burning.

 

Their first house ever, two years after Oikawa had gotten down on one knee in the middle of a planetarium, the stars dusting Suga’s cheeks in glittering galaxies, the cozy residence located in Suga’s hometown, the small, sleepy city already fitting in next to Oikawa’s heart, the distant roar of the sea already slipping into his dreams.

 

It hadn’t been easy getting here, had taken sleepless nights and tears and painstaking budgeting, Oikawa refusing to use his parents’ money any longer to get the things he wanted.

 

The house hadn’t been perfect.

 

The walls had been painted white, but that had long since faded, the garden outside needed tending and care, and Oikawa had already noticed the looseness of the lock on the front door.

 

But Suga had been so close wrapped up to his chest, his fingers clutching the back of Oikawa’s shirt, his smile blinding when he looked up.

 

A few of the boxes had been unpacked, some necessary objects removed, like the change of sleep clothes they’d needed for that night and their phone chargers.

 

Suga’s bright blue teakettle had been set in the kitchen.

 

Oikawa had held Suga closer, run fingers through his husband’s hair, and hummed.

 

He’d known everything was going to be okay.

 

 

 

_"Everything’s going to be okay, Koushi, I promise,"_ Oikawa had said as he’d clutchedSuga’s hand in his and squeezed as tightly as he could manage, doped up on painkillers.

 

Suga had been sobbing, still unbelievably beautiful even though his eyes had grown red-rimmed and his lower lip had started bleeding where he had bitten into it.

 

Oikawa’s head had been swimming with the medication rushing through his veins and numbing everything, dulling over thoughts and emotions and the horrendous pain in his right knee.

 

Too much, too fast, too hard.

 

He had been hasty, reckless, ready to scrabble to the top, to be the best on his national team, ignoring the sharp shocks of stress in his knee, jumping and spiking and serving and landing and jumping again, until it had all just stopped.

 

The pain had been unbelievable.

 

The look on Suga’s face when he had rushed into Oikawa’s hospital room had been worse.

 

Lots of things had changed over the nine years they had known each other, but one thing that had never changed, that would never change, had been the drop in Oikawa’s stomach whenever Suga cried, whenever pain flashed over that sweet face.

 

Oikawa had stroked the back of Suga’s hand with his thumb, murmured words of comfort through the morphine haze that hovered around his head, smiled when Suga kissed his forehead, kissed his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

 

He’d known they’d get through it.

 

They always had, and they always would.

 

 

 

Oikawa had always found himself staring, was sure he always would.

 

Even doing the most mundane things, Suga was hard not to look at.

 

Especially when he had been settled in the window-seat of their second house, a book propped up by his knees, his head leaning on his hand.

 

Their kitten, Astro, had curled up on the other end of the window-seat, the evening light catching on his whiskers, turning umber fur into something lighter, rose-gold.

 

Suga had looked up, caught sight of Oikawa standing in the middle of their bedroom, his tie loosened around his neck.

 

Those beautiful eyes had softened, that gentle smile had crept onto his face, no different then than it had been fourteen years before, and he’d put his book down, held out one hand, reaching, beckoning, pulling Oikawa towards him without having to say anything.

 

_"Welcome home,"_ Suga had breathed against his lips when Oikawa finally made it over to him.

 

 

 

_"Welcome home!"_

 

The excited pattering of little feet over hardwood floors that had been accompanied by a tiny, overjoyed voice, had reached Oikawa’s ears moments before the sight of his daughter did, her little legs working to throw her over the distance separating them.

 

And Oikawa had laughed, dropped his umbrella and briefcase to catch Ai, her delighted giggles filling the air as he’d swung her around.

 

There had been before, at thirty-five and a soon-to-be-father, and oh how he had worried then, back when the adoption papers were being signed, when Suga had held his hand under the table and thumbed at the rapid pulse at Oikawa’s wrist, how he had wondered if he would be _good_ enough, if he could do this now.

 

_"Perfect,"_ Suga had told him. _"You’ll be perfect."_

 

And then, years later, closer to forty, and Oikawa wouldn’t have changed one drop of time leading up to that moment. 

 

_"She’s sticky, be careful."_

 

Suga’s voice had also appeared before he did, laughter clear in it, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he’d turned the corner.

 

Oikawa had kissed Ai’s cheek, tasted strawberries.

 

He’d handed her over to Suga, who’d wielded a damp washcloth in one hand, spots of water dotting the soft blue t-shirt he had on over loose sweatpants.

 

Oikawa had kissed Suga’s temple, inhaled lavender, run a gentle hand over his cheek and felt his chest swell at the smile he’d gotten in return before Suga turned to Ai. 

 

_"She spent the entire day at grandma’s house while Daddy worked on his book, didn’t you sweetheart?"_ Suga had cooed as he’d wiped off Ai’s face and little chubby hands, as she giggled and squirmed, her large eyes shining with joy, dark hair falling out in messy tendrils from the little bun it had been piled up in, most likely the work of Suga’s mother.

 

_"And somehow grandma forgot to put up her strawberry jam jars,"_ Suga had added with a glance up at Oikawa from where he’d crouched on the ground in front of Ai, fond exasperation playing across his face.

 

 

 

Fond exasperation was surely the only thing on Oikawa’s face as he’d watched Ai wrestle Nova into an embrace, his daughter’s face scrunched up with determination, her ebony hair falling in waves and tumbles over her shoulders.

 

_"This poor kitty breaks one teacup because she’s a little clumsy, and I get weekend babysitting duty,"_ she had grumbled as she finally got the silver-haired, honey-eyed, wriggling cat into her arms, sighing, her eyebrows still furrowed in the same way they had as a baby, even at twenty-three.

 

_"Nova likes it better at your apartment,"_ Suga had teased as he’d rested his head against Oikawa’s shoulder, his warm hand slipping into Oikawa’s to tangle their fingers together.

 

Oikawa had looked down, watched his husband’s face as he talked, saw, for just a moment, a flash of umber in his eyes, a flash of memory of a different kitten, one that used to curl in his lap while he wrote, who used to purr and nuzzle Ai as a baby until she gurgled with laughter, who had come to rest under the gnarled cherry blossom tree in their back garden.

 

Suga had looked up then, as if he sensed Oikawa’s thoughts, and he’d smiled wistfully and squeezed his hand, and Oikawa had held on tighter.

 

 

 

Oikawa had wanted to hold onto that moment and never let go, wanted to sit there and look up and feel Suga beside him for the rest of his life.

 

The stars had burned, shining, glittering, breathtaking above them, the sky clear, the galaxy opening up its arms.

 

_"The best anniversary so far,"_ Suga had softly sighed, and Oikawa had turned his head to look at him, at that star-fire hair that hadn’t changed in all of the days and hours and minutes and seconds that made up fifty-two years.

 

The planetarium had been totally empty besides the two of them, closed after eight p.m. and reserved for the night by its founder.

 

Oikawa had been able to feel the stars above him, just through the pane of glass in the domed ceiling, feel them the way he always had, tugging and pulling and whispering.

 

But Suga had been - had always been - the only thing he could look at.

 

Suga, with his eyes illuminated by endless space and time, still that beautiful honey-gold, still the same despite the laugh lines that crinkled around his eyes and the papery-thinness to the skin that stretched over his knuckles and the backs of his hands.

 

Still Koushi.

 

Still his.

 

 

 

Oikawa walks down the hospital hallway, leans heavily on his cane in his right hand, the click of it against the floor the only noise in this dimmed wing of the building.

 

He reaches a door, pushes it open carefully, quietly.

 

The room inside is dark as well, the lights turned down, the curtains still open.

 

Suga had probably asked for them to be kept that way.

 

The moon outside the windows is full, rests behind wisps of cloud and glows, lights up the figure in the bed, the blue teakettle sitting on the table off to the side.

 

Oikawa smiles gently, softly, sits down in the chair he’s barely left for the past few weeks, the chair he refused to leave right after Suga’s collapse, when the doctors and the nurses bustled in and out, speaking words Oikawa didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, didn’t want to understand.

 

Suga is gorgeous.

 

Even lying here in the darkened hospital room, chest rising and falling slowly with his sleeping breaths, with his lovely eyes closed, Oikawa knows Suga is beautiful.

 

His silver hair is a sleepy mess, a smudge of silver in the dark, framing a pale face and a carefully-placed beauty mark, a soft mouth and wings for collarbones, elegant hands with long, graceful fingers that rest on his stomach over the bedcovers, and a mess of inky eyelashes that throw lines of ebony over his cheekbones as he sleeps.

 

Those eyes crack open, eyelashes fluttering, focusing on Oikawa’s face.

 

"Who the fuck comes to visit at four in the morning?" is the first thing Suga says, his lips curving up into a weak smile, his voice raspy with exhaustion.

 

He looks tired, dark smudges of plum under his eyes, his voice light and delicate.

 

But those eyes.

 

Gold flashes through the dark one last time, catches the silver of the moonlight and burn, just as bright as they ever have.

 

And for a moment, just one, brief, flap of a butterfly’s wing moment, Oikawa sees the two of them from seventy-seven years ago, the two of them facing each other in a darkened dorm room, eighteen and naive and so, so lucky, a blue teakettle in Suga’s white-knuckled grip and Oikawa’s heart racing in the flower garden of his ribcage.

 

Oikawa reaches for Suga’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> day 4 of oisuga week: (college) roommates
> 
> *i'm just going to leave this here and go cry*
> 
> [le blog](http://oisugasuga.tumblr.com/)


End file.
